


Under (the) Covers

by IMAgentMI, PFLAgentYork (Legendaerie)



Series: RP-verse [9]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Ballroom Espionage, Clothed Sex, F/M, Formalwear, Minor Injuries, Secret Relationship, Semi-Public Sex, White Tie Event
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 15:56:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13126980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IMAgentMI/pseuds/IMAgentMI, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Legendaerie/pseuds/PFLAgentYork
Summary: While representing the UNSC at a formal dinner at the Embassy, Carolina introduces York to the Ambassador; and learn a few things about each other in the process.





	Under (the) Covers

**Author's Note:**

> >8D

So he's not her plus one (which is for the best, Delta assures him, otherwise  _ “you two might as well wear signs that you're sexually-- _ ””--and romantically” “ _ involved _ .”) but York is still satisfied to accompany Carolina on this ambassador mission. The threat level is a little higher than some of the others, due to some rumored intel, thus Project Freelancer is willing to lend out two of their best agents to this cause.

York volunteered, as usual. His suit is waiting for him at the embassy, planet-side, and he has every intention of teasing Niner for having the interior of her baby deemed “too dirty” for them to wear their clothes down, so he’s in some back up softclothes uniform for their brief jaunt through space. He doesn't mind. Just means that whatever Carolina wears is going to be a surprise.

She’s beat him to the hanger. Not surprising; he's been in meetings all day, trying to cram as much information about the various bigwigs he’s going to be rubbing shoulders with, trying to catch up to Carolina’s level. (“ _ Impossible _ .” “I know, D.”)

“Hey, Carolina,” he says as he approaches, a friendly lilt in his voice. “Aaaand Niner, my two favorite ladies. How are we this evening?”

“Enjoying what time I have left before I have to endure four hours in high heels.”  Carolina has done this detail before, and it long ago lost any illusion of glamour.  She's in her own uniform, carrying a satchel over her shoulder and a garment bag over her arm.  “You have no idea how lucky you are.”  Carolina splits her envious look between York and Niner.

Niner leans her back against the ship, clearly amused. “Think again, Carolina, I know  _ exactly  _ how lucky I am.” Four hours alone with her ship is nothing new. “You  _ could _ always send me in if you wanted chaos. But I think I should stick to just flying the ship.” Niner knows her limits, and pretending to fit somewhere she doesn’t is not within her abilities. 

She turns her attention on York to partake in her favorite pre-flight ritual, “So, uh, York, why don’t you have heels too? Doesn’t seem fair to me that Carolina has to wear them and you don’t.” 

“Life isn't fair, my tiny Valkyrie,” he plays along, “but for what it's worth I did offer.”

Carolina taps her lips with her free hand, eyeing York from top to toe thoughtfully. “A friend of mine from basic ended up in a regiment that had kilts as part of their dress uniform.  I have to admit, you have the perfect legs to pull it off.”  

“I know, right?” He finds a nearby crate and props one leg up, striking a pose. “I’d have to get a pretty long one though, on account of my massive--”

“-ego.  Your massive ego.”  Carolina shares a look with Niner and grins.

Niner rolls her eyes and is unable to keep the amused smirk off her lips. She catches Carolina’s grin and laughs. “Alright, Agent York, you and your  _ ego _ need to get on the ship. Wheels up in five.” She pushes off the ship and leads the way to the cockpit. Most of her start-up sequence was done before they arrived, all she needed was her passengers. 

“I know you like my ego,” York says to Carolina in a low voice that isn't quite low enough, and with a little wink and nudge to her ribs that destroy any chance at subtly he might have had.

“Must be nice for you not to have to stroke it yourself.”  Carolina double checks her bags and nods to herself.  “Also, I would still really like to see you in a tux tonight, so let's get moving?”  Carolina returns a wink of her own, and disappears up the ramp into the ship.

“Final call to get on board or I leave you behind,” Niner yells. 

“I'm here, I'm here,” York jogs up the ramp, not convinced she's bluffing, and takes the seat one away from Carolina. Once the back hatch closes, he slips his hand into the seat between them, palm up.

Carolina shifts her garment bag, laying it across her lap, partially draping it over the seat between them.  She slips her hand under the bag to find his, threads their fingers together and gives York a quick soft smile.  “You ready for this?” 

“No,” he declares, tilting his head back and giving her a devilish grin, “but that's why you’re here, boss. To tell me to behave.”

“When has that ever worked before?” Carolina lowers her voice to a whisper. “It doesn't because you enjoy being disciplined so much.”  

The pelican jostles and lifts off the hangar floor. “Hope you’re cozy,” Niner says in her best  _ this is your pilot speaking _ voice, “we are wheels up, engines hot, and a whole ten minutes to Arena Airport.”

“Take your time, Niner.” Under the garment bag, Carolina squeezes York's fingers. “I'm not in any rush.”  
  


* * *

Carolina steps back from the hotel bathroom counter for a moment, eyeing herself critically in the mirror.  She’d tried to keep everything simple - she needed to keep her hair down to hide her A.I. port, but her attempt at curls didn’t seem to want to hold.  In the end, she’d pinned up half of it into a messy knot and let it go at that.  It looks absolutely fine, but even a small failure like this doesn’t feel like a good way to start the night.  

The embassy supplied the rooms, giving their guests a place to rest and change before the event.  And it provided an opportunity to spy on them, though any diplomat worth the name would scour their room carefully for bugs the moment they walked in.  Next to the sink was a glass of water containing the half dozen that she’d been able to find and destroy.  It was all just part of the game, just another annoying chore tacked on to this entirely annoying event. 

She isn’t looking forward to this - having York around would be the only bright spot in a long and tedious night.  Sure, there was an amazing dinner to look forward to, and it was always a treat to have any kind of meat that you could actually name after too many reconstituted meals in the mess hall, too many chalky nutrient shakes.  Forget entree or dessert - if there was any honest-to-god broccoli, she might propose to the chef.  But meal aside, it would be hours of fake smiling at people that she’d never met and probably wouldn’t like, gauging them and the rest of the room constantly for danger.  York would ease that a bit - having extra eyes on the floor would take a bit of the tension out of her, knowing everything wasn’t solely on her shoulders, but she would still be just as focused, just as intense.  It makes it worse that she isn’t allowed a weapon, but at least the embassy security staff are - in case of an emergency, she’d “borrow” a gun off one of the guards, pulled from his unconscious hands if necessary.  

Still, nothing serious had ever happened.  Not even a hint of anything serious had ever happened.  There was no reason to expect anything different tonight, only that two Freelancer agents would be bored silly instead of just one.  

Carolina pulls her dress from off the hanger on the hotel bathroom and steps into it.  Once she has her arms through the straps, it’s a little difficult to connect the clasp above her shoulder blades.  It’s unthinkable to invite York in to help - she doesn’t want him to see her until she is absolutely ready, not to mention that being together in the same room as a bed might prove too tempting.  She perseveres and eventually the clasp catches.  Carolina walks out of the bathroom to inspect her reflection in the full length mirror on the hotel room wall.  She has to admit the dress suits her.  The light satin hugs what curves she has, the bust is flattering without being too revealing, and it is nearly backless, which might be a bit too sexy for such a formal occasion, but she doesn’t care.  It will be worth it to see the look on York’s face.  And also, the colour.  Not what she would normally pick for herself, but tonight it means something.  More importantly, it’ll mean something to  _ him _ .

There’s a knock at the door. “It’s been an hour,” and the tone York takes is dramatic and put-out, “are you ready to go?”

“Yes, Just hold on…”  Carolina takes one last look at her makeup before going back into the bathroom to pick up her lipstick off the counter and drop it into the black clutch purse that she had borrowed off of South, of all people.  “I'm coming.”  She double checks that her keycard was also in the clutch, then turns out the light.  They would come back to retrieve their things before the ride back, so she doesn't bother straightening anything up.  It can wait.  

Finally she made her way to the door and opened it.  “You already call the cab?”

“Course I did,” York answer, still studying the architecture of the hallway as he turns to address her, “I had all the tiiiiiiiiiiii…”

He has to look like an idiot, standing there with his mouth open, words petering out as he takes her in. He feels as though he’s been slapped, completely stunned and in awe. Carolina is breathtaking, and he can’t look away. Heartbeat pounding, mouth going dry, knees wobbling; it’s only the cool presence of Delta in the back of his mind steeling him that keeps him upright.

York prays she doesn’t mind the brief elevator eyes he gives her, taking in the long, shimmering,  _ gold  _ dress and the waves in her hair. He’s never seen her quite like this, the full package, and as much as he loves all the little stages of Carolina, this is new. This is a revelation that crushes him into a new, embarrassing level of tongue-tied awe. “That’s…. that’s mine,” he mumbles at last, face extremely hot as he tries to pull himself together. White he’d pictured, but gold -  _ his  _ gold - he has no defense against.

Carolina smiles, delighted with his reaction.  “You hadn’t noticed?  I have been for a while now.”  She steps forward to unnecessarily straighten his bow tie, just for an excuse to get closer to him.  “You look fantas--”  She stops and blinks, locking eyes with him.  “Sorry, I just noticed, your…”

York stops himself in time from the kiss, but can’t hide the heartsick want in his eyes as he swallows hard, staring at her mouth. Her lips are darkened and plump and he is deeply, deeply regretting ever coming on this mission - this night is going to be  _ torture _ .

“Hmmm?” he asks, finally meeting her gaze. “Oh, the colored contact? Yeah, it’s annoying. Makes it even harder to see on that side, but maybe that means I won’t have to see people stare at it. Think I should have gone with the eyepatch?” York grins unevenly, skin tense under the concealing makeup on his left cheek. “They know we’re soldiers, right?”

“Yes. But fortunately, that's about all they know.” Carolina finally tears her gaze from York's doctored eye and addresses him properly again.  “From what I gather, the people who don't dismiss me out of hand just figure I'm some high-up’s daughter or niece, given some cushy assignment to be arm candy for the ambassador. Not flattering, but it lets me get my job done, so I don't care.  I'm used to the sneers by now. It'll be interesting to see what they make of you.”  Carolina smiles and takes his arm.  “Now, Agent New York, would you kindly escort me to our car?”

The noise he makes resembles a tea kettle having an anxiety attack (“ _ as the saying goes, pull yourself together _ ”) but York pretends to lead her to the car anyway. He can’t stop looking at her out of the corner of his eye, and more than once she guides him out of the way of furniture, but opening the door for her gives him a view of her exposed back. He nearly slams his hand in the door. If there’d been a sniper on the hotel roof it would have blown his head clean off. 

(“ _Focus, Agent York. We’re on a mission._ ” “I’m trying, I’m trying, she’s just--” “ _I know._ _Do you want me to supply you with alternative visuals?_ ” “No. … Maybe. But later.”)

Carolina waits until York is settled into his seat next to her and has sorted out the instructions to the driver before she rests her hand lightly on his thigh.  “Everything okay, York? You seem to be having a hard time.”  She smiles as she feels him stiffen under her touch as she almost imperceptibly strokes up and down his leg. “So tense.  Just relax- you'll be brilliant.”  She leans forward, mouth to his ear. “You always are.”

If he could look at her - hell, if he could speak, he’d do his best to retaliate with grace and eloquence. Instead York offers her his hand to hold out of sight of the driver.

“Any last minute cramming you wanna do?” he manages at last, wishing he could see her out of the corner of his bad eye. But the cosmetic contact makes her nothing but a black-tinted blur in the middle of a hazy blue ring.

“Of course.”  Her lips almost brush his ear this time. “But we can hardly do it here.  Not unless you wanted an audience.”

The worst part is, he does.

York’s hand finds hers on the seat and he eases his fingers between hers, stroking the spaces between her knuckles and sliding the pads of his fingers in and out, in and out of her grasp. The comparison should be an easy one to make, even if it does very little to satisfy the hunger burning his cheeks and coiling at the base of his spine. It's all he can do, here, where discretion is key.

It's Carolina’s turn to stiffen and she wonders if he can see her flush in spite of her makeup.  “Well played,” she murmurs.  Carolina carefully tightens her fingers around him, gently squeezing, then releasing, then squeezing again as he continues to move.  “I am so tempted to ask the driver to turn around, go back to the hotel.”

“We have a job to do,” York says softly, though the undertones in his words betray how much he agrees. “Later.”

He settles his fingers between hers, locks them into a grip like a lifeline, like a promise; and then the car is pulling in front of the location for the event. This time, York remembers to check for danger before opening the door.

Carolina allows him a moment to scan for danger before emerging from the cab, adding her eyes to his.  She turns in place, taking in faces, stances, vehicles, rooftops.  “Clear?”

“Instincts say yes,” York murmurs, helping her out of the car. The hand on her shoulder slides down her bare back to rest just above her hips, just above anything inappropriate, and his fingers catch on the edge of her dress as he pulls away. 

“Lead the way, boss,” he says, even as he offers her his arm again and puts on his best smile.

“Just the way you like it,” she replies quietly, returning the smile.  She guides him up the rather nondescript steps and into the building.

There are other parts of the embassy that are used for far more mundane things - for travel papers, for assisting citizens abroad, ready to deal with a myriad of small emergencies and tedious paperwork.  But that part of the embassy might as well belong to a different world completely - Carolina and York walk through the door and into opulence.

The entrance hall is white marble, with tall white pillars, gold trim and a line of malachite vases atop plinths in a row along one wall.  They are three steps in the door before a butler approaches.  He takes them in at a glance, and seeing no coats that need to be dealt with, gestures down a corridor.  “Agent Carolina, Agent York -- if you would please follow me…”

Carolina keeps an eye out for danger, and at the same time, manages to watch York.  This place had been well outside her realm of experience when she came here the first time, and she looks forward to his reaction.  The butler approaches a dark walnut wood door and opens it for them.  Carolina and York step into the dining room.

Dominating the room in the dining table at its center, lavishly decorated with floral centerpieces and candles.  The place settings have nearly twenty different pieces of china and silverware laid out, and she knows without doubt that York is going to ask her about them, but she’s not going to be much help.  

The walls and carpet are the same shade of red, and all of the decorations in the room are gold - everything from the picture frames, to the doors, to the wood trim, the gleaming chandeliers above their heads, the gilded chairs, even the domed ceiling was trimmed in gold - if they could be considered “undercover” then Carolina feels like she dressed for camouflage.   

“I like the colors,” York admits in a low voice, “but I can't help thinking about how much of that is real gold, and how much money was sunk into this that could have been helping people in need.”

“To be fair, this building was… inherited, and became the Embassy.  Seems the lower classes held the same opinion as you, that the rich ruling family making a show of their wealth while children starved in the streets was pretty damn heartless.  As far as rebellions go, it was surgically precise - the guards, servants, nearly the entire household staff turned on them as well.  Not a single member of the family was left alive.  Not one of them.  From the elderly matriarch to the last newborn, all dead.”  

Carolina’s face was carefully neutral as was her voice, simply relaying a history lesson, but her eyes betrayed something grimmer. “The rumoured bastards were even tracked down, killed as well.  All the bloodline wiped out.”  Carolina lifts her head to follow the curves of one ornately carved arch.  “Even the ‘good guys’ act as villains do.  Needs must when the devil drives?  Does that excuse it?” Carolina returns her gaze to York.  “Not sure I'm in any place to judge. You?”

“Blood doesn't define morality. Choices do. I’d like to think I wouldn't have done something like that, but… sometimes there's not a choice at all.” In an attempt to lighten the mood, York makes another observation. “Revolution or not, do we really need four glasses each?”

Carolina bursts out laughing. “Never been to a formal dinner before York?  This is normal, don't let it bother you.  And don't let my story color the way you see the Ambassador.  Try not to make any judgements before you meet him. Not even things I have said.”  

She stops herself just short of reaching for his hand.  “I'm going to do a quick visual sweep before people arrive.  Can Delta sense any obtrusive energy use?  Is that possible when it is just you without your suit?”

“We can't do much like this. He’s basically in to be an encyclopedia tonight. So I already know too much about this guy we’re meeting.” A brief pause as he listens to Delta’s whispered thoughts. “... In Delta’s words, he’s naturally curious. In mine, he’s a snoop.”

So much for not judging.  To be fair, she knows where his hostility is coming from.  She has talked freely about being uncomfortable with the Ambassador’s hands-on habits, usually when she is exhausted, sore and generally in a foul mood so soon after the missions.  The situation is a bit more nuanced than that, but she usually wasn't in the mood to explain, only bitch, little knowing that they would be here in this situation one day.  

“What did you expect, York?” She asks patiently.  “What did you think his job is?  He is living in a sector of space openly hostile to Earth, to humanity. He is working to keep communication open not only with our allies, but also our enemies.  Diplomacy is our first and best chance at peace, and failing that, he has an extensive spy network that brings us information about enemy forces’ locations, weaknesses, the fine details of their victories and losses.  He has saved thousands of our soldiers’ lives with the information that he delivers to us, the information that I am sent to retrieve.”  

Carolina keeps her voice gentle, but this is important and he needs to understand.  “If you can't find it in you to respect the man, so be it. But try to at least respect the work he has done.  He trusts me, and we need him to trust you.  I'm worried that might not happen if you are so openly hostile, and there is no one I would rather entrust with this responsibility than you.”  

“... I was talking about Delta being a snoop,” York says softly after a moment of staring at her. His smile is immediate and easy as someone else walks into the room, and he offers her his arm again. “Shall we tour the rest of the place? We’ve got the time.”

Carolina closes her eyes, takes a deep breath and fights the urge to rub at the bridge of her nose.  “Sorry,” she mumbles, then takes his arm and leads him at a measured pace out of the dining room.

“It's like what you said earlier,” York continues, “about how the revolution worked. It's easy to judge history when you're detached from the moment, and it's easy for me to dislike someone I've never met who acts in ways I wouldn't. But who's to say I wouldn't be the same as him, if I had to do that job? You have to do the best with the role you're given.” He swallows down darker thoughts. “What's important to me at least is how hard you try with the hand you have.”

Carolina gives him a sideways glance. “Glad to hear it. Maybe you two can get along after all.”  

“You doubted me? ‘lina, if I can take bullets for the guys who threw a live grenade at me during a training session,” and he taps his cheek, where makeup has softened the deep gashes, “I think I can fake it for a few hours around some old bastard.”

“Not doubted you, not exactly.” She tightens her grip on his arm, in apology for what she said, and for what she’s about to say. “But I know you well enough to know what grudge you are probably carrying on my behalf before you’ve even laid eyes on him.  Just… set that aside for a bit?  Meet him first.  Maybe you won’t have to fake it.”

York turns his head to take her in with his good eye, making sure to hold her gaze. “For you,” he says, at last. “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask.” It is an effort not to reach for him - she knows what she is asking, how much it is costing him to make this concession. But hopefully once he meets him, he’ll understand. Hopefully she’ll be right.

His hangups about ethical spending aside, the place is lovely. As more and more people start to filter in, Delta identifying them from a distance, York is starting to get used to walking with her like this; an equal partnership as always, her leading him as much as he escorts her. So of course, that’s about when she murmurs in his ear that it’s time for them to meet the ambassador.

She feels him tense against her, but she doesn’t hesitate as she leads him down a narrow hallway, away from the babble of voices growing from the entrance hall and the dining room.  The white walls aren’t as tall here, the only ornaments simply the gilded moulding just below the ceiling, stretching the length of the hall.  There is a single door waiting at the end, dark carved wood that looks completely at odds with the recessed security panel in the wall next to it.  Carolina pulls away from York, places her palm on a small screen on the panel.  There’s a tiny beep and she steps back, head tilted as she waits. Finally from the speaker they hear “Come in, Agent Carolina,” followed by the heavy sound of an electric bolt. Carolina pushes the door open and leads York into the Ambassador’s study.

The first thing that any new visitor usually noticed in the office was the bookshelves.  At a time when paper had largely been abandoned in favour of digital copy, books replaced by tablets, libraries replaced with computer archives, the Ambassador’s collection of tomes was impressive, evidence of a lifelong passion. Three of the walls were nothing but shelves of books, and along the fourth was a luxurious but well worn high-backed leather wing chair.  And in the center of the room, just rising from his desk, is the Ambassador.

The short, old man behind the desk appears to be made of mostly ears and nose.  He looks fragile -- skinny enough that Carolina is always afraid that one good fall could end him, a fear exacerbated by the way he staunchly refuses to use a cane. He still has a full head of white hair, cut short, and his bushy mustache would have made it hard to tell if he’s smiling, but his well-creased eyes give it away.  “Agent Carolina.” When he reaches for her hand, she allows him to take it.  He clasps her hand in both of his, patting it almost absently, as though comforting her. “It is always good to see you.”  

“And you, Ambassador.”  Carolina nods to him, then turns to address York.  “Agent York, I am pleased to introduce you to Ambassador Constantine Vernii.  Ambassador, my colleague Agent York.  As we discussed, he is to be my backup should I ever be unavailable when you request a meeting. There is no one on my team that I trust more for this responsibility, and I am proud to bring him to your attention.” 

Her praise doesn't do much to soothe his spirits, having already formed an extremely negative opinion of the Ambassador, and York takes a second to search the man’s face. He finds nothing inherently dangerous there, even as that rage - the same rage that had blocked Washington’s path after his teammate had threatened Carolina, the same rage that promised retribution swift and decisive should she be hurt - claws at the back of his throat.

He swallows, relaxes his shoulders, and offers a hand and a warm, genuine smile. “The pleasure is mine, Ambassador. And should the occasion arise I will do my best to meet the high standards placed by my colleague’s performance. Hell, I’ll even wear heels,” York adds with a wink.

The Ambassador laughs and cocks his head, taking York in. Then he releases Carolina’s hand to totter over and shake York’s.  “I hope that will not be necessary. I believe there is a stepstool around here somewhere, should you ever need to reach one of the high shelves.”  The Ambassador throws a delighted look back at Carolina, then continues. “Agent Carolina has spoken very highly of you, and I have never known her to give empty praise. I look forward to working with you, Agent York.”  The Ambassador ducks his head in what might be a bow.

“She doesn’t make empty threats, either,” and York mirrors the bow, straightening to flick a glance back Carolina’s way to gauge her reactions. He reads her better than a stranger, after all.

“No indeed.”  The Ambassador’s eyes twinkled. “Once she told me that if I wasn't careful about my bad puns, she would introduce me to a teammate whose jokes were worse. I should have listened.”  Behind him, Carolina bit her knuckle and turned away, trying to hide a smile. 

York raises a theatrical eyebrow in her direction. “Well, she certainly couldn't have been talking about me. My jokes are the best.” A little reminder from Delta about their schedule catches his interest. “Should we be going?”

“Normally Agent Carolina is kind enough to escort me to the dining hall for such events. I do not move quite as well as I once did, I'm afraid - luckily we know longer hold seasonal balls here at the Embassy, as my dancing days are behind me.  But with Agent Carolina’s permission,” the Ambassador looks over to Carolina before turning back to York, “would you assist me tonight?”

“I have no objections,” Carolina responds quickly. “But only if you are comfortable with the responsibility,” she adds to York. “There is not much you need to do. Make the official entrance, and be seated next to the Ambassador in a place of honour at the head of the table.”

“I think I can handle that,” York says, warm and easy, “so long as you're nearby to keep me in line.”

A heartbeat’s pause, where he wonders if he put too much suggestion in his words (“ _you_ _did_ ”) and if the Ambassador picked up it was aimed at Carolina. (“ _he would have to be more blind than you to miss it_ ”)

But his smile doesn't falter, and he offers the man his arm.

Again, his mustache makes it difficult to see his smile, but the Ambassador’s eyes beam as he takes York’s left arm.  “Excellent! Yes, both myself and Agent Carolina shall be near at hand, should you need guidance.  I’m afraid however she will need to take her leave of us now, as all the guests will need to be in place before we make our entrance.  Agent Carolina, if you wouldn’t mind switching the name cards for yourself and Agent York? I am aware it will be a slight breach of protocol, but not much more than it shall be when I forget which fork I’m supposed to use for fish again. ”  

“Of course.” Carolina split one last smile between the two men, turned and walked out.

“Shall we?” The Ambassador pats York’s arm and inclines his head toward the door. “If we start now, we might arrive before the other guests decide to eat without us.”

“If they do, I could probably carry you. I'm used to carrying the team,” he grins, completely ignoring Delta’s spluttering about a breach of protocol. York is prepared to stoop to match the man’s shorter stature, but the Ambassador seems to trundle along just fine.

“While we’re at it,” York adds in a lower, more serious tone, “you should know you’re on my bad side. Or, my blind side, I don't have much of a bad side,” he covers quickly. “I’ll do my best not to lead you into any doors, but if I do, it's not intentional.” 

The look he gives out of the corner of his eye tells him absolutely nothing; were it not for the ambassador’s hand on his arm, he wouldn't be able to tell anyone was there.

(“ _ I was not prepared for your vision to be this compromised. _ ” “Sacrifices for vanity, I guess.” “ _ I will rely on your other senses, then. This might may prove especially exhausting. Please be on the lookout for symptoms such as nasal bleeding-- _ ”)

“Come again?” York asks, catching the end of the Ambassador’s question.

“Would you be more comfortable if I was on your other side?” The Ambassador lowered his voice to match York's.  “I would be happy to assist you, if you wish, but I understand if you are more comfortable relying on your A.I.”

York’s pace falters, a spike of cold fear lancing through him at such a topic being mentioned so casually. Inside his head, Delta scrambles with panic.

(“ _ He knows how does he know who told him are we compromised how did I miss this it’s just like-- _ ” “shut up shut up shut up Carolina trusts him” “ _ she trusts the director too and he tore he tore he used he hurt he-- _ ” “we have to trust we have to trust” “ **_you_ ** _ have to trust,  _ **_I_ ** _ do not _ ”)

Just as quickly, Delta goes completely silent, folding in on himself as he buries himself in files. It leaves a ringing in York’s ears and a throbbing in his temples, but at least he’s not trying to juggle two conversations.

“No,” he says, only four seconds after the question was first asked. “I’d rather be able to protect you than be able to see you.” There’s something wet tickling the bottom of his nose; York sniffs.

“I appreciate your dedication.”  The Ambassador tightens his grip on York's arm as he scuffs the bottom of his shoe on the floor. “You had a moment to take in the dining room before you came down to my study, yes? We need to head to the double doors behind the head of the table. Someone will meet us there and officially announce us.”  

Unseen, the Ambassador chances a glance up at York, taking in the scars that are lessened but still visible, despite the makeup.  “When we are seated, your ‘duties’, such as they are, shall be few. You will be happy to know that you are still to be seated next to Agent Carolina, so you will have still have pleasant company even if I am called away.  But for the most part, all that is required of you is to eat, drink and not appear too bored.  I hope this will not be too disagreeable?”

“With all due respect, sir, getting shot is part of my usual job. This feels more like a vacation than an assignment. Don’t worry about my comfort, sir. As you said, Agent Carolina will be there. Watching my back,” he corrects himself, god he really is a bad liar, “and I’m a very, very patient man.”

The frantic mental ping he sends Delta’s way is entirely ignored. 

“A trait that serves both soldiers and diplomats well. Tonight we shall both need it.”  The Ambassador gives a deep sigh.  “Fortunately you now get a break from this rambling, long-winded old man-- we are nearly at our destination.”  

There is short flurry of activity as they approach.  Several members of staff descend on them - one leaves to prepare the announcement of the host's arrival, one begins whispering instructions to York, and a third follows at the Ambassador’s side as though unwilling to completely entrust York with his safety.  The tiny man swiftly shooes them all away and leads York to the ornate double doors himself. 

“Are you ready, Agent York?”  Whether he is or not, the doors swing open and they step inside to applause.

For all his showy nature and the jokes made at his expense, there are certain aspects to infiltration that York has quietly mastered; it is one of these skills that allows him to melt into a polite shadow on the Ambassadors arm, cheerful and charming as he guides the man to his seat, sits beside him with the precise amount of subtle movement needed not to draw attention, smiles or nods at all the right times in the speech. York doesn’t have any illusory enhancements to his suit because they wouldn’t do him any good; his skill in stealth is in being forgettable.

While the Ambassador continues his speech, Carolina has a moment to turn her attention to York.  He can't see her watching him, not the way his head is inclined to listen to the the speech, not with that contact in, and from this angle he probably couldn't see her even if he was looking straight ahead.  It's for the best then, that they swapped places for the night, otherwise it would have been a stranger in his blind spot instead of her.  

Carolina chances a peek down the table and again sees the little old lady next to her frowning with baleful disapproval.  In her eyes, Carolina had committed an unforgivable breach of protocol on switching the name cards, in disrupting the man-woman pattern down the table, probably in her choice of evening wear as well.  At this point, her hair, makeup, height and choice of occupation are likely all additional targets for derision.  She's tempted to lean over and whisper how she regularly fucks the brains out of the guest of honour, just so the woman pops like a balloon full of outrage, and Carolina can spend the rest of the evening in peace.  But instead she turns her eyes back to the head of the table and pretends to pay attention.

God, but York looks good.  The opportunity to see him in a tux has made this entire ordeal worthwhile.  He seems more at ease in the spotlight than she ever did and Carolina has to admit that these missions suit his personality far better than they ever did hers, though rank has always been the deciding factor in who received the assignment.  She might have to do her best to get that changed. 

As the speech drags on, York turns to look at her.  It is only for a moment, only enough to give a small smile before he turns away, but it is enough to make Carolina stiffen in her seat.  To a stranger, York would seem relaxed, at his ease, but she can read the tension in his good eye, the way he seems to flicker inward to reach out or respond to Delta.  Her first impulse is to scan the room again, looking for signs of danger, but even as she turns her head, she knows that can't be right -- York wouldn't hesitate if he thought there was a chance of trouble.  However it was a coin flip whether the person he would protect was the Ambassador or herself.  

She doesn't have enough clues as to what is going on in his head, so she settles back to pretend to pay attention to the speech again.  She's relieved to finally join in the applause at its end, but she waits until the staff have been around to fill their glasses and serve the first course before she finally turns to him.  She holds back from touching him - contact from his blind side would startle him for sure, but she's sure that she is probably breaking more etiquette rules when she raises her voice to get his attention.  “York.”

He turns smoothly, blindly to face her, leaning in to make the motion casual. It brings his face too close to hers, and the breath he takes in to speak is sharp with tension. Against his will, his eyes dip briefly to her lips, and his tone is more sensual than discreet.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Just checking in… everything okay?”  She catches herself about to reach out, to smooth her fingers against his cheek, but stops herself in time, drops her hand to clench on her lap under the table.  God help them both - wine is already on the table and it would be rude not to drink.  Before the night is out, she will shatter protocol into shards, she can already feel it.

He smiles, but doesn't let it reach his eyes. “Little overwhelming. Lot of this social stuff is  _ greek  _ to me.” The code word is a stretch - maybe she’ll catch on, maybe she won’t. Delta is still not responding, caught up in his own paranoia and its bleeding into York through the quarantine. It's hard not to reach out to Carolina for support, even under the table, just in case someone sees. It's harder still to give her a playful little nudge and pull away when he can barely keep his eyes off her mouth.

If she hasn't already been thinking about Delta, there's no way she would have caught the hint.  As it was, she still wasn't sure until she traced a ‘D’ on the tablecloth between them and waited for York's slow controlled nod to confirm.  She returned his forced smile and leaned closer.  “Need to pull…”  She falters partway through, realizing too late there is no way she can possibly finish this sentence without it sounding suggestive.  She gives him a meaningful look instead.

York arches an eyebrow, lowering his voice. “Nah, my lady’s on birth control,” he says with a wink; the risk of being inappropriate at the dinner table is better than the risk of discussing something like the AI.

Carolina's smile goes from forced to genuine, even if accompanied by an eyeroll.  “As long as you're sure.”  She wishes she could do more to help, but she has to trust that York would let her know if this is an emergency situation. “Luckily most of your job is simply to sit there looking pretty and charming people.”  She lowers her voice further.  “Can confirm you are good at your job.”

“I learned from the best,” York plays back, the elevator-eyes he gives her not entirely part of the act. He is memorizing her like this, and every time he looks at her he feels his heart pound.

A tap on his right hand brings his attention snapping back to the Ambassador, and the first course.

The room is too loud for Carolina to make out what is being said, but she watches York straighten, leaning toward the Ambassador to catch his words.  After a moment, York replies and she sees the older man laugh before they both address their soup.  Entirely too conscious of the old lady slurping noisily next to her, Carolina begins her meal as well.

The night slides by quicker than she expected.  The courses flow in and out like the tide, the wine is excellent, and despite her concern for York, she finds herself actually relaxing.  For once, she is not the one in the spotlight, and her only responsibility is to sit here and represent the UNSC and the Project -- fortunately, she can do that and enjoy herself at the same time.  

Between courses two and three - he thinks, maybe, the events of the night are smearing together in his mind like wet paint on glass - Carolina catches his attention.

“York --  _ York _ \-- oh for heavens s-- your  _ nose _ .  Here--”  Carolina plucks her linen napkin from off her lap and forces it into his hand.  

He touches it on reflex, and when the napkin comes away red there's a fresh wave of cold terror (“ _ they know they know how do they know no one is supposed to know _ ”) before Delta shuts down.

He excuses himself to the Ambassador and Carolina with a short nod and an apology each, a little feigned laugh with the napkin balled up in his fist (“ _ don't leave DNA behind”)  _ York heads to the bathroom.

It's empty and huge, and York feels out of place as he tears off toilet paper and shoves it up his nose, studying himself in the mirror. Out of sight, he lets his shoulders slump and his eyes closed. He's enjoying himself, sure, and could do this again. But being so blind both metaphorically and physically is taking its toll on him, and York wants to bury himself in Carolina in all the ways he can.

“Hang in there, D,” he says to his reflection. “Just a little longer.”

Carolina takes another sip of wine to settle herself, but her appetite is gone.  Nosebleeds are a common sign of AI distress and the toll it takes on their host’s body - North used to have them almost constantly after he was implanted with Theta, to the point of needing supplements and an afternoon stint with York’s healing unit to avoid needing a transfusion. His body just couldn't keep up replenishing on its own. After her brief exchange with York earlier, she’s concerned for him and Delta both.  

“Agent Carolina.”  She looked up to find the Ambassador looking over at her.  Once he sees he has her attention, he pats the arm of the seat next to him.  She pauses only a moment to wonder if this is breaking yet more protocol, but if so, at least it is host-sanctioned, so she rises to join him.

Once she is seated, he leans closer, and lowers his voice until it is almost lost in the babble of the guests. “Regretfully, I believe in an attempt to be courteous, I have caused your colleague some distress. Or perhaps his…” the Ambassador pauses, searching for a word, “...companion. Was he not aware of my connection with the Project? That I am aware, in some part, of its particulars?”

Carolina closes her eyes and takes a deep steadying breath.  Mystery solved.

The Ambassador tilts his head, watching her. “No, then. I'm afraid that I do not know how to apologize to him without complicating the matter further, but I hope at the most appropriate time, you will be willing to pass along my regrets.”  He stops, studying Carolina for a moment before going on.  “Reading people, making snap judgements as to their character and if they are trustworthy - that’s part of my job. When you peddle in dangerous information, when you entrust your informants with your life as much as they entrust you with theirs, you have to know that you are not making a fatal decision.  Knowing how to read people, and how to do it quickly, saves lives.”  Again, he pauses.  “Agent York is the kind of man I would trust with my life. Moreover, I would trust him with the lives of my family, if I had any left. And speaking of family…”  The Ambassador leans forward, his stare piercing through Carolina like a spike.  “He is exactly the kind of man to start a family with.  Yes, I said it.”  The Ambassador sits back in his chair, smiling at the look of horror on Carolina’s face before once again leaning forward. “I don’t need to read people well to understand the looks you give him, and only someone completely blind would fail to see the way he looks at you.” 

His smile grows sad but he keeps going, determined to say his piece before she interrupts.  “Take this advice from an old man who doesn’t have much longer to give it - when you can get out, get out.  You have someone to live for.  Don’t die for this war.  Don’t watch him die. I did - sixty years ago.  Sixty long years give you lots of time to think, to have regrets.  When you can get out - when you can do it and live with your conscience afterwards - do it.  That’s all.  I’ve said my piece. If I don’t say it to you now, I may never have the chance again.”  

Carolina has no idea what look must be on her face right now.  She has no idea how she feels.  Shock, horror, and disbelief battle for supremacy, but somewhere in the mess, there’s a strand of gratefulness that she would like to stomp out, but can’t.  She wants nothing more than to grab her purse, find York and get the fuck off this planet, but right now she’s aware she can’t even leave this seat without finding something to say in response, and she is utterly speechless. 

“I’ve gone too far.”  The Ambassador doesn’t sound the slightest bit sorry, but reaches out and pats her hand apologetically.  “I’m well versed in etiquette, protocol and rules of decorum for systems across the galaxy, and I’ve broken dozens in these last two minutes. Yet, I hope one day you will bless me for it.”  He gives her another sad smile, and waves his hand at her in a motion of dismissal to return to her seat.  

Carolina stands, eager to get away, but finally finds her voice.  “I’ll...remember.  Thank you, Ambassador.”  As she moves back to her own seat, she glimpses York re-entering the hall.  She avoids his eyes, drains the rest of her glass and attempts to re-piece together the shards of her composure.

“I miss anything?” he asks, easing himself into his seat. Carolina looks pale; York shoots the Ambassador a dissecting look before he can school his expression back to playful. “Oh, don't say I missed the main course?” 

“No, no...though I think it is on its way.”  The Ambassador peers out over the assembled guests, looking for signs of activity from the staff.  “Normally when I hear soldiers talk wistfully of foods they miss from home, steak seems to be a favourite.  I hope that a beef tenderloin might come close, if you have similar cravings?”

“I miss anything that isn't specifically formulated for optimal nutrition,” and he stops himself midway from looking at Carolina before lowering his voice, angling his shoulders to get between them and frame the conversation as intimate. “If the food isn't to your liking, I would hope that I would be next on the menu above my fellow Agent.”

In the back of his mind, a revived Delta blares disapproval. 

The Ambassador throws back his head and laughs, a thin reedy sound, touched with bitterness.  “Agent, I left that sort of appetite behind me over half a century ago, buried with my wife and children.  I'm afraid you would need to look elsewhere for your dessert tonight.”

“Shit, sorry,” York slips, pulls himself together and shoves the grim label of ‘jealous boyfriend’ in a closet to deal with later. “Didn't mean to open old wounds.”

“You are fine, Agent. There is nothing to forgive.  Some wounds never fully close.”  The Ambassador waved his hand dismissively. “Ah. Here comes the next course.”

Catching the hint, York lets the subject drop. As he reaches for a new fork, York trails his fingertips along the side of Carolina’s arm, a touch that for all purposes seems accidental. He hungers for more, even more than he does for the richly seasoned beef he can smell from here, but just a touch is all he can spare her.

Carolina hopes her makeup hides the flush in her cheeks as his fingers graze her skin, but she is still grateful for the distraction. She's careful not to raise her eyes, to react at all, but something in her finally unlocks enough to lay her napkin back in her lap and she is ready a moment later to accept her next plate of food.

Every course has been a treasure; even with Delta’s distress he’s been able to enjoy the flavors and textures of authentic, from the earth food. And now that Delta is pulling himself together, now that York can cross off the Ambassador as a threat to Carolina, now that the evening has crested and is beginning to near its end there is only one issue left on his mind.

“Soooo,” he starts, turning around in his chair to see her. “You’re not pouting because I replaced you, are you?” York phrases his words to tease, distract, the soft words curling at the edges into little hearts. Even on a mission where they're trying to be undercover, every single part of him loves Carolina, too much to hide all at once.

“York, you're being… obvious.” The words come out stern, but break at the end into something warmer.  Carolina bows her head and a rueful smile replaces the tension she had been carrying.  “But apparently, so was I.” Somewhere under the table, hopefully blocked from view by clothes and chairs, she dares to nudge his foot with hers, brushing the toe of her shoe over his ankle.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, ma’am,” he chirps, holding her gaze as he takes another bite of tenderloin and sighs blissfully through his nose. Out of sight, he leans into the touch.

“You rarely do.”  She taps his foot twice before breaking contact, but as she starts to turn back to her nearly empty plate, she notices the Ambassador watching her and smiling.  As soon as he sees she has noticed, he looks deliberately toward York, then raises his eyes towards heaven with amusement.  Her moment of panic passes almost immediately, and she smiles back, finishing her plate with renewed appetite. 

“There we go,” he says, just low enough for her to hear, and turns back  to his own meal. The Ambassador is talking to someone on his other side, so York sweeps his eyes up and down the table. All seems well; Delta confirms.

(“Feeling better?” “ _ Agent York, I am not equipped with a nervous system of my own. _ ” “You WERE a nervous system.” “... I  _ am in less distress than before. All my research suggests Ambassador Vernii intends no harm towards Project Freelancer, or towards you and Carolina as individuals. Nevertheless, I would like to personally monitor his activities once we arrive back at the Mother of Invention. _ ”)

York eases the edge of his fork along the bottom of his plate, hyper-aware each time it scrapes against the china as he gathers up the last of the vegetables.

(“Because you don't like him?” “ _ I have formed no strong opinions about Ambassador Vernii yet. I simply wish to keep an eye on him to guard against any threats to the Project… and to us.”) _

The teasing smirk he puts into his reply leaks onto his face as he savors the last bite. (“There's an us now? How bold of you.”)

(“...  _ Agent York, however much we may be at odds with our differing ideologies, I assure you that, as much as I can be, I am on your side. _ ” “Love you too, D. … Now, stop trying to access the Wifi while you're in my brain. It's giving me a splitting headache.” “ _ Understood. I shall drastically limit my activity, and focus primarily on--”) _

York’s wandering eyes land on the opening doorway, and Delta recognizes the figure before he does. A murmur passes through the dining hall like a gust of wind, driving the breath from York’s lungs. The Ambassador is one of the last to turn, and his face splits in a grin.

“Leonard!” he proclaims. York is already on his feet, snapping to attention and assuming Carolina is doing the same as the Director strides into the dining hall, striking in a bone white suit and black shirt.

“Pardon the interruption, Constantine,” and he bends to accept the man’s hug, “it was a last minute affair.” A wave of his hand and York drops his salute.

“No trouble at all. It's always a pleasure to see you. Here, let me get you a chair.”

“Don’t trouble yourself. Agent York,” and over the Ambassador’s shoulder his eyes are as green and hard and empty as chips of glass, “if you would be so kind as to lend me yours. I trust you’ve had enough to eat. Carolina, you may sit.”

He steps out of the way smoothly, military training (and Delta’s tense insistence) keeping his tone even. “Yes, sir. Should I head back to the ship, sir?”

“If you would like.” The Director drops his gaze and scoots his chair in, covering Carolina’s hand in his own. The words and tone are as polite as expected, but the blunt dismissal (and the claiming touch) feels like a slap to his face. York nods and vanishes out of the hall. No head turns his way to watch him leave.

The shock of the Director’s arrival still hasn't quite worn off, but Carolina has the presence of mind to ignore York’s dismissal, keep her eyes away from him as he leaves the room and keep focus on the men in front of her.  Shit.  She hopes she can find York after this, that he has the sense to find a place to wait for her, or at least leave a message if he does return to the hotel or ship.  They'll sort it out.

But for now, she will keep her mouth shut, play along and hope she can end her night as soon as possible. 

“I'm surprised you decided to still come out, this late in the evening.” The Ambassador tilts his head slightly.  “May I send for a fresh plate for you?  You arrived in time for dessert, but I can still have a meal brought out for you.”

“I'm afraid I can’t stay that long. Dessert will be enough. A new glass would be welcome,” and he passes York’s near-empty one to the waiter along with the plate. In the same motion, he flips the name card over. “I came for the company more than the food.”

“Certainly.”  All it takes is a gesture to the waiter, who nods before retreating with the china and crystal. “It has been far too long, Leonard.  When was the last time we met, face to face? Though I have been grateful for the honour of your top agent in your place.  She has been kindly tolerant of my long-winded yammering.  I hope the most recent Intel I have provided has proven useful?  My sources have all fallen silent for the moment, I am afraid.”

“Too long,” the Director agrees. “You've been doing your best, but war is never easy. As much as I’m given, it’s not enough.” He takes a deep drink of his wine. “In our pursuit of victory, nothing short of perfection is enough.”

“Wish I could do more, but I'm afraid my time ‘in the trenches’ is long gone.  I think perhaps some of informants would no longer recognize me, if we ever met again in person. The last few years have taken a hard toll.”  

The Ambassador shifts uneasily in his chair. “I have put out feelers toward the Insurgency, but it will take time to see if anyone is willing to take the bait. Until then, my information must come from third party sources, two and three times removed. My people are brave but it only takes one to be caught and we both know how easy it is to extract information with the right… persuasion.”  He shakes his head firmly.  “I can give you no more than I have, Leonard. If I push my people to greater risks, our lives are as much at risk as theirs.”

“This venue is a little too open for such talk,” the Director warns, “and it looks like our food is here. Your study, after this?”

“That does sound best. Once the meal is over, more people will be interested in the bar anyway.  We will hardly be missed.”

Meanwhile, York has finally stopped wandering in a massive balcony-like space overlooking a decorative garden. The smell of flowers is faint but poignant as he leans on the stone wall, a glass of water with a lime in his hand. The rows of smaller, circulate tables are empty, and the bar on the far side has only intermittent traffic. He can’t hear the diners from out here, only snatches of laughter from the bartenders as they presumably swap stories. It's peaceful, but his shoulders remain tense.

“Think we’re in trouble, D?” York says aloud, so soft it's scarce audible to his own ears. 

(“ _ When are you  _ **_not_ ** _ in trouble? _ ”)

He grunts in reply and takes another sip of water, dipping his fingers in to clean them before pulling out his contact. York holds it on his finger for a moment, then flicks it into the garden below. The night swallows it immediately, and he blinks away the rush of tears to that eye.

“Much better.”

Back at the table, Carolina tried to stay patient, eating her way through a berry tart mechanically, listening to the older men reminisce over events she knew nothing about.  She tried to give no sign of boredom, nor any eagerness to leave, knowing without a doubt that attempting to excuse herself would lead to a “polite request” for her to stay. So she tried to pace herself, chewing slowly, and despairing that neither man seemed inclined to stop talking and have more than a mouthful so far.  

Time is measured by bites instead of minutes, and Carolina is down to trying to corral the last crumbs on her plate just for something to do when she sees motion out of the corner of her eye.  She looks up as the Ambassador manages to get to his feet and begin to speak.

His words are brief - a simple acknowledgment of his guests, thanking them for coming, and an invitation to continue the evening in a more relaxed setting on the veranda. Carolina notices some of the guests are still not more than half-finished with their desserts and there is a low murmur as people attempt to decide if they are supposed to proceed out of the room now, or finish their plate.  The Ambassador is unconcerned about the ripple through the dining room, however, and has barely finished speaking before the Director is standing next to him, offering his arm to lead him out of the room.  Applause starts up a touch late from the guests, but it swells as the two men turn away, and Carolina rises from her chair to join them.

“You will not be needed, Agent Carolina,” the Director says in a low voice, stopping her dead in her tracks. “Dismissed.”

Whatever sting she might have felt from such an abrupt dismissal is immediately soothed by a rush of relief.  With as much dignity and grace as she can muster, Carolina pointedly nods to the Ambassador, salutes the Director even as he is already turning away.  She can feel the Ambassador’s eyes on her as she leaves and part of her wishes she could say goodbye properly, but nothing can stop her from gliding out of the side door, determined to find York.  

She could hear a hum of voices ahead of her, growing louder as she walked.  Carolina grits her teeth, in no mood to brave a crowd, but as she moves closer, the hallway opens into a wide veranda. There is a sweet and pleasant breeze blowing in, and as Carolina takes in the flowers, the shimmering lanterns and the well stocked bar laid out before her, she thinks how lovely this could have been, had the evening gone differently.  She glances around the room searching for a familiar face, but isn't until she has nearly given up and is ready to walk out that she spots a familiar silhouette leaning against the far railing.

“York?”  Carolina weaves through the crowd of content and chatty guests, keeping her eyes fixed on his back.  “York?”

It's Delta who hears her first, York being lost in thought after a brief exchange with a waiter for something good and stiff. Too late, he wonders if he should have fixed his loosened tie, or his hair that's starting to fluff rebelliously at his nape. Too late, because the moment he turns and sees her, everything else melts away and he waits for her with his heart caught in his throat.

“Everything okay?” he asks, leaving his whiskey on the railing.

Carolina stops in front of him and for a moment she can’t speak.  After the stress of the last half hour, just being this close to him is balm for her soul.  She spares a moment to just take him in - his contact is gone now and his blind eye milky white again, his hair is mussed as though he has been running his fingers through it. He has never seemed more sexy to her than he does right now.

“Carolina?” he asks again, taking a half step closer, eyebrows drawing in worry. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.  No.  I… it'll be okay.”  It would be okay, she knows that. The problem is, she knows how to make it okay now - she knows that all she needs is just to have him put his arms around her, press his lips to her forehead and whisper her name, tell her everything's okay.  That's all she needs, that's all it would take.  And yet, here they are in this goddamn crowd, surrounded by complete strangers who know only one thing about them, and that one single thing means that they cannot touch, not the way that she needs.  And none of this should be necessary - despite the early bumps, the night could have ended happily.  But then the Director arrived…

Frustration and rage grows in her, filling Carolina until she burns with it.  But she has no outlet - York is there, standing right there in front of her, and he can’t give her what she needs.

“You look like you need this more than I do,” and he passes her his drink, coaxing her to lean on the low wall next to him with a hand on her shoulder. Throat still tight as he turns away, he acts on the impulse that’s haunted him all night; the hand on her shoulder slides down her back, fingertips caressing her bare skin and following her spine before falling away. A risk, sure, but quick enough to be missed, to be assumed casual. Slow enough that it ties him in knots with ache to do it again, and again, and one more time with his mouth.

“Think if I jump over the railing, I’d get in trouble?” York covers with a joke, looking at the faintly lit garden below them and trying to lighten her mood. “Wouldn't mind touring the garden.”

Carolina freezes at his touch, her grip tightening on his glass.  She can feel the ghost of his touch lingering even after his fingers are gone.  This brief taste isn't enough- she is starved for his touch, his body, and as the anger flares in her again, she knows  _ exactly _ what she wants and how she is going to get it.  

She takes a hard swallow off York's glass and barely manages to make it go down - god she abhors whiskey, but she needed something and wasn't going to waste time at the bar.  She hands the glass back to York. “Finish this. You'll need it.  We're going.”

Without a word, York chugs the rest of the whiskey, knowing full well how expensive it is and frankly not giving a shit. Nor does he care where Carolina is taking him, too glad to be gone. He can't take her hand but he steps in her shadow, ears tuned to the click of her heels, trusting her to guide him through the building.

Carolina pauses only a moment in the entrance to the balcony.  One way takes them toward the main hall, the exit and the babble of yet more people.  The hall going the opposite way takes them back towards the the dining hall and the Ambassador’s study.  “Follow me.”

She hurries down the hall, past the dining hall, sparing only a glance inside to see how many people are still lounging over tea or coffee, and whether the seats at the head of the table are still empty.  They are.  

Carolina grabs York's sleeve, pulling him after her still further down the hall.  They come across a door, and she drags him to a halt while she tries the doorknob.  It refuses to turn - locked. 

She continues past, finding another door - this one locked too.  She exhales hard through her nose in frustration.

York tilts his head to the side, studying her. “Whaaaat are we doing here, boss?” he drawls, trying to find pockets to put his hands in so he doesn't run them all over her back again, fuck, it's all he can focus on and how it felt under his fingers. He could sink his teeth into his tie and scream of frustration. “Need me to pick something?”

“Maybe. Not yet.”  She can see another hallway branch off to the side and she pulls him after her again - at least they put out of direct view in the main hall.  There are more doors down here, and the second doorknob she tries turns in her hand.  She opens the door, scanning the inside wall for a light switch. She finally finds it and flicks it.

The light illuminates a small walk-in linen closet. One wall is nothing but shelves, with tablecloths, chair covers, napkins, table runners and the like all folded neatly, bagged and labeled.  It's perfect.  

She steps in, holding the door open and locking eyes with York.  “In.”

Two steps in, York falters as Delta’s voice rings out in his head.

(“ _ Rabbits _ .”)

Immediately after, he has withdrawn entirely, leaving York alone in his head with a mouth suddenly dry and eyes going huge and dark as he turns to her.

He backs himself against the wall, staring at her with open, desperate need. He could pinch himself, if he didn't expect she was about to do him even better.

“Oh,  _ fuck _ .”

“Exactly.”

Carolina presses herself against him, both hands gripping his hair, pulling him down for a kiss.  Her tongue is already searching for his and she lets one hand drop to palm him through his tux.

He jerks against her with a whimper, hands at her back pulling her closer, sliding under the hem as he meets her passion with his own, hardening under her touch so fast it makes his knees buckle. “Yes yes yes yes yes,” he gasps between kisses, trying to find a way inside her dress, inside her.

“Shhhh.”  Carolina pulls back just enough to place a finger against his lips. “Quiet. You wouldn't want us to get caught before I make you come so hard you forget your name.  Would you?”  She removes her finger from his mouth, leaning forward to bite his lip instead to distract him while she drops her hands to fumble blindly at his belt buckle.  

The noise he makes is breathy and warbling, throttled back but escaping anyway and he can't stop touching her, every inch of her skin, every other thought and instinct forgotten other than want. He feels like she’s replaced his blood with gasoline and lit a match. He feels  _ alive _ .

“Carolina,” he murmurs against her mouth, pressing his forehead against her and just barely brushing her lips with his own, nosing along her jawline and dragging his parted lips against her skin.

“Yes, York?”  Her hands finally manage to undo his belt, and she is already unfastening his pants.  She touches the zipper but pauses, stroking along the length of his still-trapped cock with her other hand.  “What do you want? Tell me.”

York sucks in a sharp breath, mind wiped blank from the contact and the heat of the moment. “This,” he manages, voice high from strangled pleasure. “You. With the dress on and the-- the lights off.”

“For you, anything.”

Carolina leans away from him just enough to get her fingers back on the switch.  She locks eyes with him as she flicks it down and plunges them both into darkness.  

York’s night vision is terrible but his photographic memory is not. He finds where he left off on her neck almost immediately, trailing his mouth around the neckline of her dress and up to tug her earlobe between his teeth.

Carolina barely stifles a gasp, almost freezes just to enjoy the feeling of his teeth, his breath hot on her neck and jaw.  She presses her hands to his chest, making her way down his front carefully to avoid hurting him by accident.  She finds his zipper again and pulls it down, easing his pants down over his hips until gravity takes over and they fall to the floor.  She teases the elastic of his briefs with her fingers, running her hands behind him to drag her nails over the curve of his ass.

York makes a helpless noise against her, jolting with the scratches against his skin. “Please--”

The way he yanks her against him, sliding the fabric of her dress up and up and never seeming to make any progress, is at odds with the gentle, barely there reverence of his mouth against her shoulder. They’ve not had sex for a couple weeks but…

“Do you know-- how long-- I've fantasized about this?” he asks, muffled against her neck, the movement careful and tender even as his hands bunch her dress around her hips, the slick fabric always escaping his grasp and falling back down.

“No. Tell me.”  Carolina drags her hands back to his front again, skimming them up over his coat and the buttons of his dress shirt until she finds his tie  and unfastens it, shoving it in his jacket alongside his pocket square.  He is still working her neck, so manages to undo his first two buttons one handed.  She shrugs him off gently, just enough to bend down.  She makes sure his shirt is open enough to not leave lipstick marks, presses her lips to his skin and sucks hard.

“Aaahhh, ah, y-years, for years ‘Lina,” and he drops her skirt in his shock, a burble of disappointment escaping his throat as he loses all his precious progress. York tilts his head back, leaning hard against the wall, and savors her mouth on his skin while he tries to brainstorm a way around her dress.

“Years…” Carolina licks across the hickey she can't see, breathing hard against his wet skin. “That's a long time.  Plenty of time to perfect a fantasy.”  She nips at him, as hard as she dares without risking him screaming.  “So what comes next?  What else have you dreamed about?  I want to make it real.”

In reply, her bite having wrung the air from his throat, York spins them around in the narrow space, backing her against the wall and dropping to his knees.

“This,” he moans, dragging his hands down her legs until he can find the bottom hem; and with no warning York ducks inside her clothes and sucks on her clit through her panties.

Carolina gasps so loudly it must have been audible from the main hallway.  She covers her mouth with her hand to stifle a moan, her other hand reaching out to clutch him to her. She strokes his head through the satin, wishing she could grip his hair, but loving this anyway. She struggles not to buck against him, but it is a losing battle and her other hand drops down to hold him tighter as she starts to move.  “ _ York…” _

He coaxes her legs open, encouraging her to throw one over his shoulder as he presses the flat of his tongue against her, saturating the cotton with his saliva. His fingers trace along the edges of her panties, agonizingly close to where she’s already getting wet and slick with want but not yet, not yet. He wants to drive her out of her mind first, so he circles his tongue around the most sensitive part of her body then curls the tip as if to breach her, but instead only pressing her panties against her opening.

This gasp breaks off into a high pitched moan and she doesn't care who hears.  She's glad she can't see him like this - the sight of him hidden under her dress, seeing it draped over him, hiding all but his most obvious movements would have made this even more obscene. As it is, the darkness and the danger of discovery makes everything more intense, amplifies every touch and she could come from this alone, without him ever breaching her.  But she doesn't want that - she wants him in her, his tongue, his fingers, his cock.  Any of it.  All of it.  And he is toying with her.

“ Goddammit. York, you goddamn tease.” She leans her head back against the wall, breathing heavily, releasing him in order to knead at her breasts through her dress.  

He pulls away just long enough to gasp two words - not an order, but a plea.

“Make me.”

“Gladly.”

She drops her leg off him to keep her balance as she hauls her dress off over his head with far more ease than he had.  She uses her knee against his shoulder to push him away, ignoring his protests for the moment.  Her hands keep her dress hiked up as she finds the top band of her panties.  She runs a finger around until she finds a seam, grips on either side and rips.  She is stopped at the piece of elastic at her leg, but one good yank breaks that too.    She doesn't bother removing it further, just pushes it down past her knee until gravity takes over and it is lost somewhere below her shoe.  She blindly throws her leg back over York's shoulder to pull him back in, gripping his hair with both hands to pull him tight back into her cunt.  “Inside me York or I swear to  _ god _ I will tie you up, lock you in this closet and tell Niner that you decided to leave the military and become a monk.”

“Should be careful with the hair,” York warns her as he bites the inside of her thigh. “Otherwise everyone’ll know. You’ll get in  _ trooooubleeee _ ,” he adds in a breathless singsong before licking a stripe along her and thrusting his tongue inside her as far as he can go.

Carolina’s retort dies in her throat as his tongue enters her.  If she wasn't pressed against the wall, her leg would have given out from under her.  She writhes around him, thrusting as though she can force him deeper into her, eyes rolling back with the pleasure of it.  

“I don't care.” She finally forces the words out, but they are barely more than a whisper.  “I want- I want to drag you back out to the veranda, fuck you in front of everyone. I want them all to see you are  _ mine.   _ I want to stop hiding.  I want everyone on the MOI to hear you scream my name every fucking night. I want to claim you every morning, make you walk the halls wearing my hickeys, watch you working out, covered in bruises and cuts from where we got rough. You are mine and I want everyone to see.”

York stops dead, pressing his forehead against her stomach and gasping, grabbing the base of his cock to wind back down. The vision she paints is one so vivid, one he wants just as badly, it hurts. “Carolina,” he begs, slithering up her body to grind his cock in the apex of her legs only to moan as her dress falls again, blocking him from getting as close as he wants.

“I love your dress so why does it hate me,” he wails, burying his face in the crook of her neck.

“Punishment for making me so damn thirsty all night. I wanted to get down on my knees under the table, have my own feast while you kept trying to keep eating, trying to hide the way you wanted to moan.  I wanted to listen to you go completely insane, trying not to choke as I milk you… quietly having my dessert between your legs.  I think I might make that a ten course meal too…”  Carolina hauls up the satin again, bunching it up over her hips and trapping the excess between the wall and her back, wrinkles be damned. She searches out his hand, guides it over her body so he understands what she has done, slides his fingers along her slit so he knows just how ready she is.  

“Christ, Carolina,” and he grinds his hips against her with no grace, no thought. “I'm already there, shit, shit shit shit” and he smashes their mouths together in an approximation of a kiss. “I  _ love _ you.”

“I love you too.”  She grips his hips, pulling them tighter together as she matches his movement.  “And right now, I would love your cock inside me.  Fuck me York. Whatever you dreamed of - fast and dirty, sweet and slow - do it. Make it real. I'm yours.”

“Keep talking.” York shoves his underwear out of the way, fumbles to line them up and still teases them both by rubbing the head of his cock along her slit. “Tell me-- tell me how it feels, but quietly-- just for now, I want you only mine. No one else's.”

“This is so hot, York.”  Carolina crosses her arms lazily behind his neck.  “Listen… all the voices… you hear them?”  Carolina lets out a breath hard as he presses against her more firmly.  “So many people.  So close.”  She wishes she could see his face right now, wishes he could see hers.  She hopes he can feel just how turned on she is.  She did not expect this to be one of her kinks either.

York finds her legs and coaxes one up to wrap around his hip, holding her up as he pushes in and smothers his wail against her shoulder. Her hair has to be beyond salvation by now, the pins holding parts of it up sliding as she’s pinned to the wall, so he runs his hand up her back to the nape of her neck, sticky with sweat and rough where her AI port sits empty, and tangles his fingers in her locks. 

His eyes are adjusting to the dark now, the bare outlines of her visible in the light seeping under the door. Yet he still misses her mouth when he pulls her down for a kiss, easing out of her and pushing back in for his first thrust. It's been a while but her body seems to remember him, adjusting to the size and motion of his cock. His slide in and out of her is easy, easier than trying to breathe in the confined quarters without being heard down the hall. York is naturally vocal, but trained for stealth. The perfect challenge.

“Yes…”  Carolina rolls her head back against the touch of his fingers in her hair.  “Deeper, York.” Her leg tries to draw him in, force him closer as she moves against him. “You feel so good -- I need more of you, all of you…”  She tries to focus on his face on the dim light.   “I want you so deep in me that you never want out.”  She doesn't want to damage his shirt, but she rakes her fingers down his back as hard as she dares anyway.  

He gasps at her words and her touch, choking back a shout that absolutely would have given them away to those on the veranda. Remembering how sore her feet looked, York picks her up by her hips and wraps her legs around him; the angle isn’t as good but it brings her closer, makes his strokes longer, wraps her around him as much as she can be and that’s what matters to him. Closeness. Intimacy. Trust.

She can't move much to help him like this, but the way he is holding her, the way he fills her is blowing her mind.  She is fighting to keep control, to keep from moaning out loud, to keep from screaming his name.  Instead she presses her forehead to his, offering broken whispered words of love and encouragement, profanity and promises.  

“Fuck...god, York… don't stop, please don't stop.  I wish- I wish we could do this - back on the ship.  Middle of the day. Push you into a closet and… god, York…”  She can barely breathe, barely think - “You close? I'm already so close, York, so close, fuck me, don't stop, so good, York….”

Hearing such encouragement nearly makes his legs go weak. York nuzzles the side of her face, kissing her jawline as he holds her up and helps her move on him.

“Bet we could,” he manages. Coherency is an effort. “I’ll go anywhere with you, any time. C-come for me, sweetheart, my darling, wanna feel it-- bite my neck if you need I can hide it, take anything, I’m yours--”

Carolina’s back arches as her orgasm takes her, and she hits her head on the wall hard enough to see stars, but barely feels it.  York continues to surge against her, into her and even if every part of her hadn't tightened around him, every joint locked up, he could have still pinned her to the wall with the sheer force of his thrusts.  She's almost lost in her own bliss, but has just enough control left to lean back toward him, whisper in his ear - “Come York. Come for me.”

“Always-- it’s always--” the rest of his words are lost in the rush of orgasm, a wave of pleasure that wipes his mind blank. York holds his breath to try to keep his volume down, and instead makes a soft and vulnerable string of noises into her shoulder as he comes, shaking, the hands on her hips locking her against him as deep as she can take him.

Between his orgasm and the lack of air, York is lightheaded as he leans against Carolina, little aftershock waves jerking through him as he tries to hold them both upright. He tries to say something, tell her how good it is, but hears someone walking down their hallway. His slowing heartbeat triples in time.

Carolina feels York stiffen in her arms, just as she hears the footsteps coming their way.  She is still breathing heavily from exertion and orgasm, and clamps a hand over her own mouth, fighting the urge to pull away and try hide the evidence best she can, knowing it would make even more noise.

The way she tenses up around him is exquisite torture; York adjusts how he’s holding her to shield her body with his, hardly daring to breathe. The sound of conversation swells and fades as their door goes apparently unnoticed.

As the sound of footsteps disappears into the sound of distant voices and laughter from the veranda, Carolina sags against York, dropping her hand from her mouth to grip him with both hands.  She holds on best she can, shaking with relief and helpless laughter over the near miss.  She tries to muffle the sound against his neck, but the harder she tries, the harder it feels to stop. 

“Y-you good?” he asks, lowering one of her legs to see if she can stand on her own. It moves her against him again, a fresh ripple of pleasure coursing down his spine, and his eyes flutter shut.

“Yeah.” Carolina swallows hard, finally managing to settle enough to talk, although she keeps smiling into his neck for no other reason than that she loves him.  “Yeah, I'm okay. You?” She desperately wants both legs on the floor, to be able stand and stretch and work out a couple aching muscles, but even more, she wants to keep him inside her just a little longer.  The thrill of near discovery still has her blood up still, and he feels so good.

York processes her question; exhausted, sated, light headed and just a little drunk. “Good,” he mumbles. “Can you stand?”

“I think so.”  Carolina waits for him to release her other leg, then stands properly.  She holds him lightly, just until she feels confident on her heels again, but as she adjusts, she feels his softening cock slip out of her.  Standing like this, it only takes a second before gravity takes over, and she can feel his semen leaking out. She presses her legs together to try and slow it. 

“York --” She makes a desperate blind grab for one of the plastic bags bags containing table linens on the shelves across from her. “Do you have any tissues? Handkerchief? Anything?”

Without a word, York drops to his knees heavily, spreads her thighs with his hands and licks at the mess he’s made inside of her.

Carolina chokes as his mouth presses against her, his tongue licking along and inside her, and her legs threaten to give up completely.  “York… oh my god.”  She doesn't trust herself to say anything more - they don't have time to go a second round, and if he knew exactly was this was doing to her, she doubts either of them would want to stop.  Too much more than this and he'll have to carry her out of here.  So she stays as quiet as she can, biting her lip, and lets him work.

Before the Project (and even in its early days, but never with crew members) York had enjoyed sexual partners of multiple genders. While he loves Carolina more than anything or anyone, and no one else comes close, sometimes he misses the abstract concept of male partners. Loves the satisfying ache of oral on a thick cock, even enjoys the taste of come. But more than anything, he loves a reactive partner, and the way that Carolina shivers under him as he drinks in their mingled fluids is absolutely intoxicating.

The errant thought of Carolina with a strap on crosses his mind, and he moans helplessly against her skin, loud enough to be heard in the hall.

“Shh! York, you okay?” She strokes his hair soothingly, wondering if she should turn on the light.

“Very,” he says, pulling away just long enough to answer, feeling a string of fluid hang and snap between them. He has to imagine what that looked like, but later. He’s overstimulated enough already, exhausted already, and almost finished. York buries his face between her legs and resumes with a vengeance

The sensation winds her completely and she doubles over, bracing herself against his shoulders, then his back, once again fighting the urge to grind against his mouth.  This time she wins out, but barely, and she's shaking with the effort of holding herself together. “You-”  Carolina’s voice cuts out and she tries again.  “You almost done?  We need to- to get going.”  The more intense he feels, the more the back of her head starts to ache.  “I'm going to turn the light on, okay?”

York groans against her before he pulls away. “Think so,” he says, voice thick before he clears it. “There, uh… there was a lot. How’s it feel?”

“Amazing.”  Carolina reaches for the light switch, but pauses.  “Wait, or do you mean- oh.  Yeah, I think you got it all.”  Carolina wishes she could keep the light off longer until the flush fades from her cheeks, but they need to move.  She flicks the switch and winces in the sudden brightness. 

Part of York wants to pin her to the wall and keep going, drive her to her usual second orgasm, but he doesn't feel like pushing his luck any more tonight. He stands, one hand on the wall to steady himself, and pulls his pants back on.

“Didn’t I hear you rip your panties?” he asks in a near whisper, watching her hunt around on the floor.

Carolina frowns in confusion.  “I did. But I don't see it anywhere.” It's not a large closet, it should be easy to see.  Carolina shakes out her skirt, but nothing falls out of the folds and she smooths the satin over her hips.  “Might have gone under the bottom shelf?  Do we keep looking or just get the hell out of here?”

“You should go-- fix your make up,” York gestures, eyes lingering on her lips. “I’ll keep looking. Meet you on the veranda in five?”

“In five,” she agrees, but first reaches out to comb her fingers through his hair.  “Thank you.” 

“Thank  _ you _ ,” he repeats with a kiss on her wrist for emphasis. York looks her up and down a moment longer, drinking in the slightly disheveled look to her evening wear. Another kiss to her wrist, absent, with the barest nick of one canine. His eyes darken.

“How the fuck did I end up with you?” he says, the soft tone at odds with the crass language and his hungry gaze as he raises them to her face.

“Sounds like a deep philosophical discussion for another time.”  Carolina steps close for one last slow, long drawn out kiss that does absolutely nothing to wind her down. She lingers close drawing a finger lazily up and down his neck.  “Think Niner would murder us if she caught us making out in the back of the Pelican?”

“Don't let my dick fool you, I’m dead on my feet,” York murmurs, kissing her again anyway. “Be lucky if I can make it to the ship without falling asleep. Shoo.”

He kisses her nose, quick and affectionate.

One last smile, then Carolina ducks her head near the door to listen before finally walking out.  There are two sets of bathrooms that she knows of close by, one heading back toward the veranda and a hundred sets of eyes, and another dangerously close to the Ambassador’s study.  Her internal debate raged for only a second, before she hurried toward the veranda.

She doesn't keep up her quick pace, but stops into the confident smooth stride she uses when in her armor.  No need for anyone to look twice, because everything is under control,  _ her _ control. Anything that seems out of place is deliberate.   _ Everything is fine. _

As she gets closer to the noise and laughter, there are a few people standing in the hall, but they seem far more interested in their drinks and each other than anything she is doing.  Carolina stifles a sigh of relief and ducks into the bathroom.

Once she's gone, York taps the back of his neck where his AI port is concealed by hair and some makeup. Delta wakes up smoothly, exerting his control over York’s body for a moment, knocking him out of his body like he’s just taken a lungful of nitrous oxide. Then it passes, and York is himself again.

“Any ideas?” he asks, replaying the events around the missing panties as he fixes his suit. A heavy mental sigh is his response. “What?”

( _ "I am a fragment of a military grade AI.  I can enhance your senses, keep you alive at the end of your strength, and run calculations faster than the mere concept can form in your mind. And yet you have me looking for a pair of torn panties." _ )

“Oh, come on,” York teases, adjusting his jacket.

(“... _ very well. I suggest looking under the cabinet near where you were kneeling as you performed oral sex.” _ )

He finds it in seconds, soaked and torn up one side.

(“ _ DNA evidence. Also, you two are shameless. This was on the clock.” _ “You mean on the c--” “ _ Absolutely not. _ ”)

York tucks the soiled clothing into a pocket, ignoring Delta’s jolt of horror at potential stains, and heads out to the veranda.

Carolina checks her reflection one more time before closing her purse with a click.  She managed to touch up what was necessary with her makeup, but things weren't truly bad in that regard, all things considering. There isn't much she can do to save her hair - what curls were left were crushed and tangled, and in the end she had to take out a the bobby pins she could find and work her hair into a low twist.  It did not completely cover her port and it is sloppy as hell but she is hoping that it won't matter - they are staying only as long as it takes to rendezvous with York again, and she pushes her way back out the door to do exactly that.

The veranda is more crowded than it was before, but this time York is waiting for her in easy view from the entrance.  There is still that same pleasant breeze, heavy with the scent of the dark garden, and a string quartet is now playing in the far corner of the balcony.  In other circumstances, she would have been tempted to stay, but York's face carries the same fatigue hers must surely show.  It's time to go.

However, as she starts towards him, a waiter appears at her elbow with a tray of crystal flutes of champagne.  Carolina doesn't hesitate to pluck two off the tray, doesn't even break her stride as she makes her way to York. 

She hands him his flute but doesn't release it.  She shifts her hand so their fingers touch, and when she finally lets go, she glides them over his wrist.  “Seems that the days we have champagne together turn out to be good days. Anything to toast tonight?”

“I found what you were missing,” he says with a tilt of his head and a glitter in his eye. “I've got confirmation that the Director’s headed back to the ship. We’re free to follow as soon as we ping Niner.” York drains his previous glass and eyes the crowds. “Hate to go, but I feel like falling asleep might be a bigger faux pas than jumping off the balcony into the garden.” Without turning his head, he shoots her a curious look. “Need to say any goodbyes?”

“No. I will be back soon enough. And he is probably even more tired than we are.”  God, she really is tired. But then something else hits her and Carolina groans with exasperation.  “We have to remember to go back to the hotel. I still have my change of clothes and a bag there. I almost completely forgot.  You?”

“... fuck me,” he hisses under his breath, shoulders sagging. “Okay. Should I call a cab, then?”

“We would need one either way.” Carolina smoothes her thumb over his cheek before she remembers where they are.  She freezes for only a second, then does the motion again, deliberately, before dropping her hand.  “C’mon - champagne and then we can get the hell out of here.” She raises her glass almost imperceptibly to him. “To real food and unlocked closets.”

“To you in a dress,” he says, holding her gaze as he clinks his glass with hers, and he knows she gets what he means.

 

 

  
  
  



End file.
